


don't you know (i dream about you)

by KatMorningstar



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst city bitch, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 10:21:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6113509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatMorningstar/pseuds/KatMorningstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignette set in the first scene of 306. Lexa is asleep, and Clarke is forced to reevaluate her actions. The altercation with Bellamy has left her confused, but things are becoming clearer. And it's due in no small part to the awful dream she's been having lately.</p><p>I hate the Revelatory Dream trope, but here it is and here I am and here we are.<br/>Inspired by Chasing Twisters by Delta Rae so much that it might as well being an old-school songfic of yore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you know (i dream about you)

**Author's Note:**

> s/o to thejgatsbykid and prosciuttoe for telling me writing this wouldn't be a terrible idea. i live to prove you wrong.

How Lexa could be asleep in the middle of the day was completely beyond Clarke’s comprehension. They’d been back in Polis for five days, and she could barely sleep at night, much less any other time. 

That wasn’t strictly true. She was sleeping. But with the dreams, it never felt like she was actually getting any rest. These days, her usual nightmares were compounded with new ones, fresher ones that peeled open new wounds and refused to let them scab.

She hadn’t known what to expect, going back to Arkadia for the first time. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen most of the people that mattered already. Her mom, Kane, Octavia, Bellamy.

Bellamy. Like most things in the last year of her life, it all came down to him. 

Even knowing what he was doing, colluding with Pike, killing a peace army, she hadn’t expected the stone set of his jaw, the cold-burning rage across his brow. He’d been surprised to see her, but only for a moment. One unguarded moment before New Bellamy slid into place. But the sick thing was, it wasn’t a new Bellamy at all. It was Old Bellamy. 

It had been so long, and so much had changed, that she had almost forgotten old Bellamy, hurling “you’s” from a twisted mouth like hatchets aimed at her chest, instead of the soft “we’s” she’d come to expect. He had been right, everything he said so justified that even she, talented as she could be in diplomacy, could say nothing that would make it any better. Clarke had allowed herself to hope, when he came for her, not once but twice, that it meant he didn’t blame her. For leaving, for the Mountain, for all the things she deserved to be blamed for. Apparently even his forgiveness had its limit.

And somehow that stung the worst, seeing him walking backwards into the shadow of his old, resentful self. Which just proved that she really was selfish to the bitter end, because Bellamy had always been a secret point of pride. She’d saved her people in the Dropship. She’d played her part in getting them out of Mount Weather. But there had always been collateral damage. Helping Bellamy, making him see that he wasn’t who he thought he was, being his friend-- it was the only time she could remember doing something good for someone without hurting anyone else. She had lost so much already, so many friends, and so much of her belief in herself as a fundamentally good person. It felt somehow cosmically unfair to have this one good thing, this one pure thing she’d done taken away too. 

It slashed away at what little soul she had left. 

When they’d been together, on the same side, what seemed like too long ago to be right, she’d seen the change in both of them. The trade-off. The faint whiff of her own cautiousness in Bellamy’s planning; the taste of his rage in her mouth. Was that corrupted now? Had he taken too much of her reserve, boiled it down to callousness? Had she taken too much of his anger, poisoned it into vindictiveness? What bits of each other they’d retained had gone sour in their separation, spoiled into something awful. She could still feel the cuff on her wrist, even as he stroked his thumb across her other hand; she could feel the shock baton against his stomach, even as she wanted to drag him out of camp with her.

But what good would he do here? He would be away from Pike, but from what she could see, he was the only thing keeping Pike from the worst of the atrocities he had in mind. He would be useless in Polis.

Lexa shifted in her sleep, stretching out an arm without opening her eyes, making Clarke glad she was only drawing her from the neck up.

God. What good was _she_ doing here? Whoring herself out to the commander, emotionally if not physically. (Though the day would come when Lexa wanted more, and Clarke would have to weigh the good it would do her cause, the leverage it would give her, against the bitter edge of betrayal she would never stop smelling on Lexa’s skin.) She was here for a reason, and everything was going according to plan, but she couldn’t help but wonder. Could she be doing more, back in Arkadia, or was this the best she could offer her people, the only weapon she had to fight with? 

She had resigned herself to the knowledge that, maybe all she could do was let herself be consumed into Wanheda, the commander’s trump card, her pet, in exchange for the possibility of having Lexa’s ear and driving her nebulous plan to fruition. But for all Lexa had sworn fealty to her, for all she seemed to listen to her counsel, she still wielded Wanheda like a weapon. Clarke was never going to be a person to her. A trophy, a vessel for tender feelings that Lexa never seemed to care about being reciprocated. And when she outlived her usefulness, or when she crossed the line Lexa would inevitably draw between her and her people, she would be another Gustus. Dead, in spite of their relationship, in spite of loyalty owed, with Lexa’s sword in her. She deserved that much, and if it helped her people, she would take it.

But something was changing, and she could feel it tugging at her in her dreams.

When she slept, after seeing Finn, TonDC, the Mountain, she saw Bellamy. They were back in Mt. Weather, his hand over hers on the lever that would end everything, begin everything else. It was a terrible choice, but they were making it together, and at the time, it hadn’t felt wrong. It didn’t feel wrong in her dreams, for the first time in so long. But this time he looked down at her, mocking, and said, “I know who Oppenheimer is.” 

And the world split between them, opening a ravine, and from its depths, her own voice was whispering, “Death, destroyer of worlds. Destroyer. Destroyer.” 

She tried to call out to him over the gap, but her guilt rose up and choked her. Why would she want to be with him again? They were leaders together, unstoppable, and she was tired of leading. She needed to be stopped. And when Pike came up behind Bellamy and shoved him forward, into the dark, she couldn’t move. An arm was banded around her waist from behind, slim but wiry with muscle. 

Lexa.

And every time, Clarke would sigh, leaning into it. Finally, someone was holding her back, keeping her from making the kinds of choices she was so scarred from making. And if Lexa was keeping her from any choice at all, so be it. It was easier this way, better for everyone. If anyone deserved a cage, it was her.

But last night, the dream had changed. Before Lexa started to haul her away from the edge of the gap, she caught sight of the bottom. It was down, so far down she could barely make him out, but Bellamy was down there, and he was hurting. He was in so much pain, she could feel it from where she stood. But his hand was on the rocks now. Another hand. He was climbing. And not up to his side, up to Pike, but to her. 

He’d never make it. Not by himself. And she could never help him with Lexa holding onto her. 

She’d avoided thinking about the dream all day, but sitting here, useless, she couldn’t avoid it anymore. The last time she’d had the opportunity to draw had been in prison, in the Sky Box; Polis had felt like a refuge, but now the reality of her self-imposed sentence was becoming clearer. This had to end. Things were changing, and Lexa couldn’t keep her. 

Clarke wasn’t done here; she couldn’t go home yet, and she needed to focus. Soon enough, “jus drein no jus daun” would guarantee her people’s safety, and it would ensure that the clans would rise up against Lexa. The internal struggle and the power vacuum would distract them from the Sky People, and Clarke’s job would be done. She could go home.

Because it was painfully obvious now-- while she and Bellamy had both been doing what they thought was right, the further they were from each other, the further their moral compasses skewed. They would never point north again if they stayed apart. 

So it was time to speed things along. Encourage Lexa’s feelings. Do whatever she needed to do to keep the commander’s eyes on her and not her allies. Alienate Titus, so when the dissenters rose up, he would hesitate to come to Lexa’s defense. It was time to stop hiding here. Whether they made it out of the ravine together or just climbed out side by side, whatever her next move was, it was going to be with Bellamy next to her. She wanted the real him back, and by God, whatever depths she had to go down to, she was going to get him.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhh. Feels good to purge. Kinda feels like I just vomited all my frustrations with this season and Clarke and Lexa onto a rambling Google Doc, along with some True North feels and my theory about Clarke "forgiving" Lexa, but it is what it is. (Also, anytime I write something that ISN'T funny or cute, it feels like bad writing, bc I feel like I'm bad at it? Whatever.)
> 
> Catch me on Tumblr (as maryam0revna) cooking up hot conspiracy theories and reblogging sad gifsets. Come holler with me if you think the whole:
> 
> "titus: look wanheda, this 'jus drein no jus daun' thing is gonna get lexa killed. murdered. dead. pining for the fjords. so could you like. stop?
> 
> [2 hours later]
> 
> clarke: [in front of giant crowd] JUS DREIN NO JUS DAUN, BACK ME UP HERE COMMANDER." 
> 
> thing hints at her having a plan. It's my favorite thing right now.


End file.
